for the first time. That would be something. Yeah. Something to see. Sparks would fly….
What was that sound?
Music.
Ralphie sighed. Beautiful, the music. Heartbreaking.
It had started far away and it was coming closer. A Bruce Springsteen ballad from the early nineties, “If I Should Fall Behind.” A woman was singing it….
Phoebe. Oh, yeah. Phoebe was singing that beautiful song, her husky voice so rich and true.
The music swelled in volume and then a vision burst wide open, bright as day, before him.
He saw the Prairie Queens: Phoebe, Cimarron Rose and Tiffany, onstage in their glory before it all went to hell, before Phoebe divorced him and the band broke up. Cimarron Rose on the keyboards, Tiff on bass guitar. Phoebe, who played lead, stood at the mike, the lights catching bright gleams in her long dark hair, green eyes shining as she strummed and sang so slow and sweet.
Phoebe’s face changed and she was Darla, singing just for him. Darla, wearing a long, white dress, her stomach jutting high and proud with the baby she was carrying, a halo of golden light around her angel’s face.
“Darla Jo,” he whispered to the darkness and the distant stars. “It doesn’t matter. All your lies. Or what you did. I love you. I’ll always love you. And I’ll wait for you where I’m goin’. I swear I will.”
The song faded. The vision melted away. Ralphie Styles let his eyelids droop shut.
He never opened them again.
CHAPTER ONE
If life is a waste of time, and time is a waste of life, then let’s all get wasted together and have the time of our lives.
—from The Prairie Queen’s Guide to Life, by Goddess Jacks
AT THREE IN THE AFTERNOON on her thirtieth birthday, Phoebe Jacks stood behind the bar wearing strappy sandals with four-inch heels and a black sundress printed with roses. She was polishing a beer glass. Phoebe found polishing the glassware calming, and she needed a calming activity right then. Her ex-husband, Ralphie Styles, had screwed her over royally—from the grave, no less.
Oh, yeah, she thought, blowing a coil of dark hair out of her eyes, happy birthday to me.
“And what I want to know is, who the hell is Rio Navarro?” Cimarron Rose Bertucci, one of Phoebe’s two best friends since birth—and Ralphie’s second wife—pounded the old oak bar with her fist. She did it hard enough that the jumbo margarita in front of her bounced. Luckily, Rose’s drink was half-empty, so not a drop was spilled.
Phoebe set down the freshly polished glass. Ralphie had mentioned Navarro’s name now and then, in passing, over the years. “Some old friend of Ralphie’s,” she said. “Not from Oklahoma. Lives in California, I think.”
On the stool to the right of Rose, Tiffany Sweeney, Phoebe’s other lifelong best friend—and Ralphie’s third wife—was shaking her blond head. “Not even from Oklahoma.” Tiff did not approve. “Who is he? What does he do?”
“Well, I guess I’ll be findin’ out soon enough.” Phoebe grabbed another glass and set to work bringing out the shine.
“That’s Ralphie for you,” muttered Tiffany. “Never met a heart or a promise he couldn’t break.”
Rose shook a finger and made a tutting sound. “You know how he was. Such a sweetheart, really. He always meant well.”
Tiff’s blue eyes grew suspiciously misty. “Yeah. Yeah, I know…” She blinked away the emotion and turned to Phoebe again. “And Pheeb, who says you’ll ever even have to deal with your new partner? Ralphie knew a whole lot of shady types. Most likely Navarro’s one of those. I wouldn’t be the least surprised if that cheesy lawyer of Ralphie’s hasn’t got a clue how to find the guy.”
Phoebe sighed. “I called the lawyer yesterday when I got my copy of the will in the mail. The lawyer told me he sent Navarro his copy by FedEx a week ago. It was delivered and Navarro signed for it.”
“Doesn’t mean a thing,” Tiff insisted. “Take it from me. Mr. Rio Navarro is some grifter or cowhand who never stands still long enough to sign for his mail. His drunk girlfriend probably signed for it and then promptly passed out. It’s probably waiting at the bottom of a tall stack of unpaid bills, totally ignored. Don’t expect to meet your new partner any time soon.”
Rose took another gulp of her drink. “Leave it to Ralphie,” she muttered, the words both tender and exasperated.
Ralphie Styles had died broke, but he’d always had a need to leave a legacy behind. As a result, over the years he’d compiled a detailed will in which he doled out every piece of junk he owned. Rose and Tiffany had both received bequests. Rose got a wall clock shaped like a cat. Tiffany was now the proud owner of a gold-plated keychain with the finish wearing off. Both items apparently had special meaning. At lunch a little earlier that day, Rose had got a sad, faraway smile on her face when she’d mentioned that clock. Tiff’s eyes had gleamed when she’d spoken of the keychain. Tiff said Ralphie always used to carry it, when she and Ralphie were in love.
To Phoebe, Ralphie had left all the old Prairie Queen publicity stills that decorated the olive-green and brick walls of the bar he and Phoebe had jointly owned since their divorce eight years ago. In those decade-old pictures, Rose, Tiff and Phoebe smiled wide for the camera. They’d been on their way then, with gigs all over town and a record contract in the works. Ralphie had been their manager.
Phoebe herself had collected those photographs, framed them and hung them on the walls. Only Ralphie would will a girl something that already belonged to her.
And oddly enough, that he’d left her own pictures to her had touched her, made her feel all soft and dewy-eyed, like Tiff with her keychain, like Rose with her clock. As if by willing her what she already owned, Ralphie was somehow reminding her of all that had been—of the passionate, wonderful, long-ago love the two of them had shared, of what a great time they’d had.
As to Ralphie’s half of the bar itself, which now belonged to the mysterious Rio Navarro, well, Phoebe knew she should have got it in writing one of those dozen or so times that Ralphie had told her how it would all be hers when he was gone. Those times were mostly when Ralphie needed money. He’d hit her up for a loan and remind her of how it would all shake out in the end, that one day Ralphie’s Place would be hers and hers alone. He’d died owing her over twenty thousand dollars.
Phoebe polished another glass.
Yeah, she of all people should have known better than to take Ralphie Styles at his word.
Phoebe had been nineteen when she eloped with him. He’d been forty-seven: the legendary Ralphie Styles. In love with her. At last. That he was finally seeing her as a woman had meant everything to Phoebe. She’d known him all her life, been in love with him since she was old enough to speak the word and mean it. He’d never married anyone until he’d married her. She’d thought that made her different than the rest.
It hadn’t. He’d broken her heart they way he did all the others—broken her heart and then, over time, become her true friend.
And no. Phoebe couldn’t say she
